


familiarity (is in the eyes of the beholder)

by stearofoam



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established yet Pre-Relationship At The Same Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Or an excuse to write Ethan Hunt as the melodramatic yet emotionally-obtuse man he deserves to be, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stearofoam/pseuds/stearofoam
Summary: A week before Christmas, Benji loses a chunk of his memory due to a head injury. In the world of spycraft and international threats treated as a job description, amnesia is supposed to feel like temporary bliss.Ethan might think so too - if Benji has not also forgotten about their... intimate relationship.(Takes place before the events of MI: Fallout.)
Relationships: Benji Dunn/Ethan Hunt
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	familiarity (is in the eyes of the beholder)

**Author's Note:**

> For Cillian. Merry Christmas my friend, and an apology for this late gift. I hope I can make it up to you with this 7k wordcount fanfic (;3c

Ethan has learned not to complain since 1996. The moment a flight attendant brought to his seat the ever-polite inquisition of the IMF - _just hours_ after he killed his long-time mentor (and, regrettably, a father figure to him) - Ethan knew the IMF was where he would lay to rot. They had made the decision for him. They might try to make a show of hunting Ethan down every few years, maybe make him a red herring to some out-of-control crisis, trust him to sort that shit out whilst handling a bomb (and then some) out of the range of civilian casualty… _But hey, the Armani suits and free sight-seeings have been worth it._

That last sentence sounds alarmingly like Benji’s voice in his head, the cynical dip of his quip has started to grow on Ethan. 

It’s the last thing Ethan wants to be reminded of.

He sits rigidly on a steel bench, letting the frigid smell of antiseptic wash over his overheated mind, trying his best to calm down. Two feet away and a cheap polyester curtain apart would be Benji, who is most likely to be cold and still snoozing, with bandages all over his head and upper body. A couple of beats of silence go by until he has to turn his head, listening to the stilted tempo of Brandt’s footsteps approaching closer. 

“Where’s Luther?” he asks. His voice is too measured, too robotic.

“Glad to see you too,” - is Brandt’s appropriate response. He hands a lukewarm styrofoam cup to Ethan and sits an arms-length away - “He should be back to Seattle. He said to give his condolences to you and Benji.”

“... Alright.”

“In case you care to ask, I’m here as... _representative_ for the clean-ups.”

Brandt’s perpetual owl eyes look bruised, with eyebags turning into an unflattering shadow on his face. Ethan is not sure if he looks better, especially when he could feel blood caked on his skin, unsure if it’s from his or from the many men he had to wrestle and shoot off today. 

Ethan takes a sip from the styrofoam cup, tasting strange coffee with too little sugar. “How did it go?” he asks, just to fill in the deafening silence engulfing the private clinic. 

It might not have gone too well, he gauges from the man’s heavy sigh. Ethan doesn’t have to, since he’s been there from the beginning: Syndicate had been pouring funds into some lunatic’s plan, which said lunatic had developed a highly-contagious virus that could be activated with heat, planned to spread it using the firework show on Christmas (and holidays are a hotspot for criminal, _obviously_ , who wouldn’t pass up causing mass hysteria and multiplying chaos?) As the shrewd mind of Solomon Lane was no longer there, the supposed biological attack was quickly unraveled, which led to a surprise infiltration tonight, in New York - and, as always, the operation was not a smooth sailing, not without retaliating acts of violence. 

Ethan had his usual close-calls and high-speed chases, at one point having to escape firing range _in mid-air_ . The real close call was when the lunatic scientist - Dr. Namquarz - decided to fire the virus _right then_ as a last-ditch effort. Ethan had to race with time to locate the virus pod and reset the firing command, Luther had to use the best of his skill to override the cooling system in the firework storage with nitrogen, and Benji had to buy time for them by being a bait, going as far as to lure Namquarz’s men to the top floor of the building. Ethan almost missed the reset by two milliseconds, Luther successfully contained the virus by freezing the entire storage room, and Benji got thrown out of the windows, _from the 7th floor_ , crashed onto the roof of an unfortunate Ford. In front of _many_ bystanders.

“ _Jesus_ , your eyes, it _burns_.” Brandt hiccups on his own cup of coffee. Ethan keeps his glare, enough to make the smirk on Brandt’s mouth quickly wilt. 

“He’s... good now, right? That’s a little bit funny if you think about it.” Brandt says, getting all self-conscious.

_You’re not there to see him_ , Ethan wants to reply. Or perhaps he’s not Ethan Hunt, doesn’t have an overanalyzing mind, an overprotective streak, trust issues, and unresolved traumas wrapped in a blanket of soldier complex. The feeling of _feeling_ Benji’s blood on his own hands as he scooped him off the crumpled roof was _visceral_ (and all Ethan could think about was _I’m too late_ , _not again_ , his memories of Claire, Lindsay, _almost_ Julia and then Benji melted into a mess, indistinguishable--)

_Stop_ , _breath in_ , _remember reality_. So he does, as he has to. 

Benji is _safe_.

( _He’s ok_ , Ethan tries to repeat. The words turn into a mantra and he prays without worshiping any God.)

Ethan opens his mouth after a moment of recollection. Tries his best to sound like he’s filing for a mission report, and not a matter of the heart--

“He called me Mr. Hunt when he woke up.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Brandt murmurs after a short pause, catching on quite too quickly to his liking.

___

  
  


In the world of spycraft and international threats treated as a job description, amnesia is supposed to feel like temporary bliss. As someone who’s on the receiving end of the treatment a couple of times in his early IMF days, the catch is to believe in the “temporary” - as long as you’re certain (or delude yourself enough) that things will eventually return, amnesia can be a vacation for you. Or, better yet, a powerful mental cleanse. 

However, when it comes to others, Ethan has a harder time convincing himself. What can be said about him, what he can and cannot do, does not - and _should not_ \- apply to other people.

Benji stays in a private clinic in Rochester with strict bed rest until the twenty-third of November. Ethan never fails to visit and stay until nightfall, yet hasn’t been able to properly explain _why_ he is Benji’s emergency contact.

“Mr. Hunt, you’re--”

“Call me Ethan,” he says to Benji, probably for the third time since he’s woken up.

“Sorry, um, _Ethan_ ,” Benji stressed, understandably confused (yet inexplicably disheartening) for a person with only memories of working for the IMF in a handful of months - “You don’t have to keep stopping by if it’s terribly inconvenient to--” 

“It’s not a working obligation, I assure you, Benji.” Ethan cuts in. A smile grows as he drops his voice, and drops down to sit near Benji’s bed, “It’s... _personal_ obligation, more like.”

The medical staff and his higher-ups have ordered him to keep some parts of Benji’s missing memories out of the way, at least until they are assured Benji’s condition won’t pose a potential risk of sensitive information. A shame, really, since this (short-term) sheepish version of Benji could have used some appreciation for his strong growth in the present: from an overzealous yet overtly wary newbie, to a still-idealistic, yet brilliant, loyal, and more than capable, field agent. At least, that’s what Ethan thinks Benji deserves, for he is…

Benji’s eyes widen; Ethan’s internal thoughts are soon cut off.

“Nobody has ever called me that.”

They both look taken aback, for different reasons. ‘Benjamin’ had been too long of a name for a business that is prone to racing with time, and when Ethan was introduced to the technician, he’s already known as ‘Benji’ since. With an inner grimace, Ethan files this new revelation for a later report, presumably after this hospital visit. 

“Then I’m glad you remember me. Though not the way I wanted to.” he eases the man, fingers linger on the bed sheet rather than reaching up, craving to press his palm into warmer, paler skin - “The doctors already told you, right? That you are…”

“Having temporary amnesia, a few broken bones... That I heard,” Benji chuckles, though the laughter comes out more nervous than merry. “Hope I’m not forgetting anything too important, I mean. I still remember my mum and dad and where I’m from, and where I’m working for… where we’re both working, that secret agency thing?”

“IMF.”

“Right, IMF. Sorry. Always forgot the acronyms. I don’t… remember why I’m here, though. Or how did I get to be like this.” Benji pauses, raising his hand to rub his chin. “Oh Christ, how long haven’t I shaved...?”

“I think it looks handsome.” 

Benji’s eyes widen, again, visibly blue. Ethan catches himself a bit too late.

One of the few things he was ordered to keep from Benji, _temporarily_ , _should he agree to do so_ , is about the nature of their current relationship. That seems to be a correct order, for Benji’s reaction is a mixture of embarrassment and, sadly, _caution_.

“Nobody... said that to me before.” 

Benji confesses with a modest downward tilt of his chin. Ethan is now overwhelmed with the desire to hold his hand and pepper kisses all over his knuckles.

He reigns the feeling in. “There’s a first for everything as long as it’s not offensive, right?” he says instead, with a placating smile.

Ethan leaves the clinic at seven p.m, but it’s not until midnight that he truly goes away. Paranoia, he admits, with the knowledge that IMF has secured the place as a provisional area and making sure that their agents’ identities are not discovered. He stays nearby, in a motel that doesn’t ask too many questions, taking only occasional naps and setting up some scheduled calls. Their mission in New York concurs after thirty-six hours, with most operatives already back at the HQ or continuing with another mission. Save for Brandt and his team in charge of dealing with loose ends, Ethan is the only one staying without a permit or force majeure. 

He knows that the new Secretary of the IMF should get the memo after the fourth denied call; Ethan’s loyalty to the IMF should not be doubted, at least after the little stunt Hunley had participated in at Blenheim.

So, on the fifth call, Hunley stops asking about him, and sensibly asks, _“How’s Dunn today?”_

“We will return to D.C on the twenty-fourth, sir,” Ethan answers, not a direct response to the question at hand. He hears Hunley hums on the other end, understands what is said.

_“Your missions are queued until you’re back. Don’t expect this to be a regular thing, Hunt.”_ Hunley says, sounding too happy to remind him of their _positions_. And that’s something Ethan is comfortable with - constant reminders of duty, of what’s at stake when they dare to let their guard down - so it is a surprise when Hunley continues with asking him about Benji.

“He’s,” Ethan carefully picks his words, “Seems to have no recollection of what’s after 2006.”

_“You’re certain? After 2006, that’s... he remembers working for the IMF still, yes?”_

“After some recent conversations, it seems that way. I’ve made sure to disclose information at the place we’ve agreed to, sir.”

The contented hum morphs into something that sounds frustrated. Ethan keeps his confusion in silence until Hunley speaks up again-- _“I realize this has been... unfair for you, Hunt.”_

“My stay is off-the-record, sir. I apologize for this unprompted--”

_“Your unsolicited stays in NY will be reviewed in HQ at a later time, and it will be viewed critically. But what I’m trying to say is,”_ he hears Hunley sighs, _“I... wish Agent Dunn a swift recovery, for your-- for both of our sakes. Goodbye.”_

Ethan blinks to the end of the call, feeling as _he’s_ the one being consoled. Not Benji, who’s locked in a clinic and all bandaged up, who loves Christmas and would hate to miss it more than missing his favorite brand of tea.

It doesn’t occur to Ethan until minutes later - that it’s the same to _that moment_ when Brandt took in the news of Benji’s amnesia and replied by giving an awkward, but comforting, pat on Ethan’s knee.

___

  
  


On the twenty-third of December, Ethan brings apricots to his visit. On his second peeled fruit, Benji opens up.

“So, I’ve been thinking.”

“About?” he prompts while cutting the apricot into six pieces.

“Well, pardon my intrusion, and possibly going off on a tangent, _and_ you’re free to stop me if you want. Or not, if it entertains you somewhat, my musing that is,” Benji rambles. A trait he’s known for when he’s nervous, or when he has something important to say - “What I’ve meant to say is, uh, that is...”

“I’ve got all day, Benji.” Ethan chuckles, cleaning his hands in a piece of paper tissue. He keeps his grin, just to see Benji’s face going a faint pink.

“I have no idea why you’re here,” he confesses, at last, “I understand why my folks are not here, giving the distance and time... but from what I’ve gathered in the office, you’re-- you’re Ethan Hunt.”

“That’s me.”

“Right, silly me. I mean... You’re _the_ Ethan Hunt. Not to stroke your ego or something, but you’re quite a figure in the IMF. I’d imagine you’re the type to...” 

Benji stares at the plate of cut apricots and winces, as if the fruit slices fuel more to his embarrassment. Ethan huffs, a bit too fondly to be viewed as platonic, but continues to humor him nonetheless.

“The type to visit a gravely injured friend?”

“Are we?” Benji immediately asks.

Ethan’s point finger freezes on the ceramic plate, unsure where to avert his eyes. Benji sounds surprisingly sharp, the sheepish hitch of his voice is almost gone - as if he’s returned, the field-agent Benji, the one that has grown to be a bit more jaded yet still as brilliant, polite, ever-so-brave and just-as-loyal--

He never lies to Benji, that he can confirm with a conscience. On a foggy evening in London, in the police car that transferred a comatose Solomon Lane locked in a glass case, Ethan had also made a promise not to leave Benji in the blind again.

“It’s best that you don’t get too overwhelmed.” he finally answers, still averts his eyes to anywhere that isn’t Benji’s face.

“I think I could decide how I’m going to feel, Ethan.” 

His name is now on Benji’s tongue, still being spoken in an unfamiliar tone. But, god, he _misses_ this.

“I won’t push if you don’t think it’s best to do,” Benji continues, “I just... want to know more about the man who’s going to check me out of here. Might feel better, for me.”

“To... trust?” Ethan asks.

Benji’s right-hand picks up a piece of apricot. “To have feelings for, I think,” he says, a right hook right into Ethan’s lungs.

He still looks meek and lost, but there’s a faint smugness as he keeps eating the apricot on the plate. Maybe it’s a response to Ethan hiding half his face under his hands, refusing to say anything until Benji is allowed to check out.

___

  
  


They take a late flight and land in Washington D.C at midnight, with Benji sleeping on his shoulder during the whole flight. He’s still feeling weak and should have gotten more rest, but they can’t risk staying in New York any longer, not when Syndicate is still out there. Ethan drives into the city with a Cruze the IMF has prepared for them, contemplating where they should spend the rest of the night. There’s always his hideout, a quaint and cold apartment that will be up for lease in the next month...

In their relationship, Ethan has yet asked Benji to stay at his place. Reasons being, his unresolved trust issues. So it is a surprise, along with some sentimental feelings residing in Ethan’s mind every time he looks at the object, that Benji had given him a key to his own apartment. He drives to Virginia, locates the apartment complex with a side coral paint in Clarendon, and parks there. If Benji does find it strange that Ethan has the key to his apartment, he might be too sleep-deprived, or polite (or both) to voice it out. 

A couple of seconds passed after they have settled in, Ethan understands why Benji has been too silent - it’s because this is not the place Benji has stayed before.

“I have... so much _stuff?_ ” Benji mumbles and walks into the room in a daze.

It’s a testament to how humble Benji can be as a person. The apartment is small, only about five hundred square feet and not enough to have a guest bedroom, yet Benji has made it as homely as possible with house slippers, patterned carpet, and felt pillows, buying loveseat instead of a sofa so he can have room to place an antique larder near the entrance leading to the kitchen, which is decorated with simple cupboards with folded wooden table and chairs. There’s still that green checkered blanket half-folded on the small sofa, _his favorite_ , with a misplaced remote control laying on top - a touch somehow making the apartment warmer, _habitable_. Unlike Ethan’s cold, too symmetrical house, only having the bare necessities in it.

“Your job provided this place back in 2011. Guess I should have told you that before we come in,” Ethan says, helpfully, both in supplying information and placing their shoes neatly on the rack.

“My _job--_ you mean, _our_ job?! Christ... Did I forget about getting a promotion or what?” he hears Benji’s voice in the bedroom, still sounds too dazed and, _adorably_ , impressed.

“Or what indeed,” Ethan says quietly. Because it was compensation for _helping reinstate the IMF_ after the whole fiasco with the Kremlin and Mumbai. Ethan was offered compensation of his own choosing as well - and what he chose was to place Julia in a permanent protection program, with benefits of citizenship of her own choice.

He sinks his back into the ivory loveseat, folding the blanket then holds onto it, not quite ready to leave just yet. He knows this is IMF territory, nothing bad is going to happen to Benji unless a certain extreme situation occurs. He and Benji and people he holds dear have worked their asses off to maintain a low profile, they all know how to avoid suspicion and defend themselves when they have to. Ethan has to leave if he wants to wake up at a reasonable hour.

Benji tells him to stay when he inches too close to the apartment door again. 

Hei still has that cautious look as he takes Ethan in, standing a bit too far still. However, it's not the same as how they had met for the first time in 2006, or when he had woken up with fresh bandages all over his upper body. There’s some familiarity in the way Benji rests his hip next to the hinge, with his arms folded loosely, with his bandaged shoulders sagging. “Or not, if you don’t want to,” Benji says after a period of silence. “Hospitality should not be forced.”

“You’re treating me too much for a guest,” Ethan says, thinking of ‘being overwhelmed’ as he asks himself _‘to whom’_.

“I think I could decide how I should treat my guest, Ethan.”

His name is on Benji’s mouth, again. He stares in wonder, how his name can be shaped like clay under Benji’s voice. It sounds firmer, spoken with more confidence and feelings, like the person saying his name _does have feelings_ for him.

_It is not a breach of agreement_ , Ethan reasons. The steps he takes to approach Benji are too slow, too careful, and the touch he peppers on Benji’s right shoulder is too light, too imprecise. They don’t even look into each other's eyes, and Ethan doesn’t succumb to the need of laying his head onto the crook of Benji’s shoulder. 

However, he stays.

___

  
  


Ethan sleeps on the loveseat, glueing himself to the blanket no matter how much Benji insists on being a good host. He doesn’t know how many hours has gone by, for the thing that wakes him up was the insistent ringing of his cellphone, the _personal_ one, and not the many burner phones he has in his possession.

_“Merry Christmas’s Eve, Ethan!”_ The other side shouts, too cheerfully and too loud.

“Luther,” he croaks, digging his shoulders deeper into the small sofa - “It’s only-- it’s too _early_.”

_“What’cha talkin’ about, it’s seventeen in here!”_

The time makes Ethan’s brain pauses, then screams in a hurry as he flips his phone to realize that it’s eight p.m. Which means, he and Benji have slept through for almost _a day_.

Worse of all, Ethan feels _relaxed_ and _right_.

“Time, uh,” he scrambles to sit up, with half a mind to search and wake Benji up if needed - “Time slips by. Give my, uh... Merry Christmas’s Eve to your family too, Luther.”

_“Uh-oh, someone sounds like a sleep-bug,”_ Luther chuckles. His voice softens in volume as he talks to his wife and kids with a warmth that Ethan almost feels jealous of - _“But between you and me, you damn sure need that extra sleep. Considered what’s happened.”_

“I’m alright. Jet-lagged, sure, but only a little bit. I’m in D.C right now--”

_“You’re back in D.C?! Brandt said you’d stayed in NY for a week!”_ Luther sounds relieved. _“So he’s alright?”_

The correct answer should be, _‘yes, he’s alright, and I shouldn’t keep you away from your day-off, please go back to your family and tell the kids that I’ll have to send them late Christmas presents this year’_. Or something as polite and dismissing. 

Yet Ethen hesitates, and he knows that Luther understands why. Maybe that’s why he’s calling.

“Benji forgets Kremlin and London,” he says. “And me.”

There’s a long pause on the phone, then a loud shuffling and faint stomps rise. He could envision that Luther has retreated to a quieter place, maybe to the front porch of his house. Maybe the balcony. Ethan should stop sleeping in like this, no matter how comfortable he feels at the moment.

_“Shit, man. That’s... that sucks, really.”_ Luther finally replies. There’s a sound of a sliding door closing after the reply.

“He’s not in grave danger, just got released yesterday. The doctors said it should be temporary,” he says, then sighs. “High-ups said I shouldn’t say much yet, it could be too much for him.”

“ _I know the_ technicalities _, Ethan, but I’m saying it sucks that he completely forgets--_ ”

“No, not that kind of forget. He’s... he still knows who I am. Just dialed it back to even before you found him to help with the Rabbit Foot.”

When Ethan says it, it sounds worse. Luther might have thought so as well, as the voice on the other side lets out a frustrated groan. _“Sounds like hell, dude,”_ he consoles him.

“It’s bearable, really. Feels like any day on this Earth.”

Ethan doesn’t laugh, not even having a humorous sigh. It comes to him that he’s been treating this amnesia problem like a _mission_ ; he’s in his mission-mode, with Ethan locking all of his negative emotions under a basement and only letting his sense of duty resurfaces, his head numb with calculations and plans and the ever principle of avoiding casualties. He’s patient, but detached, waiting for development and a result. A success, if Benji remembers everything again. A failure, if Benji eventually forgets.

What is the casualty? 

It’s him. It’s Ethan.

_“Ethan, it’s okay to feel a little bit upset with this. Hell, I’d start to think you’re some android IMF has built if you don’t, man.”_

Luther’s mollifying voice washes over his tense mind, like the ocean waves, water will always reveal what has been hidden under the ground. Ethan feels himself sitting up, Benji’s smell wraps him like a blanket, and all this time it is _him_ that is scared of being overwhelmed. He clutches his phone a bit too tight in his hand, and he knows that Luther can hear how his breath grows erratic, _pathetic_ , minutes by minutes.

_“I’ll call you back tomorrow, how does that sound?”_ Luther soon asks, sounding as unfazed and reliable as ever.

“If you like,” he says.

_“Fucking idiot,”_ Luther barks out with less frustration than he has expected, _“I’ll call! Keep an eye on him, will ya?”_

Ethan hums his answer, then the line goes cold. In contrast is the apartment, warm and cozy with the heater and the homely feelings from the blanket, the pillows, the dim lights, the warm colors of each piece of furniture in Benji’s house. He stretches his calves and rearranges the loveseat, then walks to the bedroom on the West of the apartment, only to find out that the door is left ajar, and Benji is nowhere to be found.

_Benji is nowhere to be found._

When Ethan has circled enough laps in the apartment and caves into the need of having a panic call with Luther, Benji opens the front door and... looks unharmed. 

If his mind is less frayed, Ethan might say that Benji looks healthier wearing that familiar dark-green parka, with the shell-pink button-up that he remembers was _his present_ to Benji, on their first Christmas together.

“Ethan? You, um... are you good?” Benji asks, _dares_ to look worried for him.

“... It’s eight and a half in the evening,” Ethan says, with voice thin as a breath.

“Oh, that! I’ve slept until midday, and tried to wake you up... But it looks like you need it _desperately_ ,” Benji sheepishly scratches his chin. “Still have no memories of this place, but at least I do know how to use my wallet, and how to spot the grocery store, and I get a bit carried away, do you know why in the bloody hell do I have _so much_ money in my bank--”

True to his words, there are two white nylon bags in his hands, and Ethan could smell the faint aroma of pre-cooked turkey. The groceries look heavy, making Ethan swallow down his lingering panic to help Benji with the bags, both walking to the kitchen in relative silence. When he says he _‘gets carried away’_ , he really means it: There are trays of pre-packed vegetables and sliced ham, cans of premade gravy and cranberries sauce, a rotisserie turkey, a large box of pumpkin pie mix (bought together with half of an uncarved pumpkin, _God_ ), and last but not least, several cans of Budweiser. 

Benji grins helplessly at Ethan’s blank stare, the content of his shopping spree threatens to fall off the table surface if Ethan isn’t fast enough to fix them back.

With a resigned sigh, he opens the farthest cupboard to the left and takes out an apron. And if Benji doesn’t question how Ethan knows _exactly_ everything is placed, from the knives and cutting boards to the plates and utensils... Then maybe it’s because both are too hungry to deal with it, then.

  
  


___

  
  


It takes them half an hour to prepare the turkey, ham, roasted vegetables, and sauce, then almost an hour pureeing the pumpkin and baking the pie. Then, when they finally fall into their seats to have dinner, it is nine-thirty p.m and Ethan is _exhausted_. 

At least there’s someone who’s taken this situation rather positively. Benji is grinning in such a mood-lifting way that Ethan can feel less tired. They wordlessly open two beers, clinking their cans together; both drink more than they should, but at least it brings a smile onto both of their faces.

“I just realize,” Benji says, leaning his back on the seat - “I don’t think this counts as a traditional meal, with, um.”

“With the beers?”

“Got carried away,” Benji says again, making both chuckles. “Okay, I have an explanation, I really do. I got to the beverage section last, and there are too many people-- but, to be honest, I grabbed the beers when I saw there’s no bottle of Ropiteau Pinot.”

“None of what’s in front of us is _traditional_ for a Christmas Eve dinner, honestly. Much less the fancy wine,” Ethan muses, and doesn’t bother to stop himself from loading his plate with too much turkey and cranberries sauce - “This is _heavy_ , Benji. These are what your family often has on the day?”

“No! A-And that’s the thing! We’d have roasted chicken and way too many pies, _wa-ay_ too much eggnog, too. I just, you know...? The impulse to buy things knowing you’ll regret it when you see the bills? ... oh, bloody hell, the turkey is _appalling--_ ”

Ethan tunes in to the sound of Benji’s voice and it’s better than any radio or television, a warmth settling in his stomach that he’s sure not because of the meal. The banter on the kitchen table is both familiar and new, in which he nods to the bits he’d heard of before and focuses on the stories he hadn’t. This Benji in front of him is less privy to his childhood, indulges Ethan in nonsensical stories of his many fond memories about his hometown, his early days, what has shaped Benji into the man he is (was) today - wherein the more ‘experienced’ Benji has learned to control himself, focused more on the present instead of the past, starry-eyes were gone and replaced with a more critical, but sometimes sarcastic, view of the world. 

Is it fair to categorize Benji into the many eras, separate him into different versions in Ethan’s mind? There’s still a fundamental foundation to the man: Benji is still the same compassionate man he has fallen in love with, and talking to him still feels like _home_ to Ethan. He is still overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him when he tells a joke and makes himself laugh first, overwhelmed with the need to graze his fingertips around the man’s egg-shaped ears, _overwhelmed_ with the desire to stay, to _be_ , to _just be_ an Ethan that can be shaped like clay under the different dips and stretches and rise of Benji’s voice alone--

“Remind me to never buy pre-made dinner for holidays, _Christ_ ,” Benji says, and it’s so normal, such a _domestic thing to say_ to Ethan, that it makes him rise from his seat to let his right-hand cups Benji’s nape, leaning forward to press their foreheads together, and _stills._

He can feel the tendons on Benji’s nape have tensed and it’s enough to make Ethan let go. _And then_ , since Benji is _adept_ in catching Ethan off guard, _melts_ under him, and holds his gaze, the brown flecks in his eyes are as calm and gratifying as the Earth itself. 

Ethan could do it. He could close this distance. He could allow himself to taste the sub-par turkey and Budweiser beer on another mouth, on a tongue that is both foreign and familiar.

Benji exhales with Ethan’s name on his tongue. Ethan lets him go.

  
  


___

  
  


They clean up in silence, bagging the leftover turkey and the sauces into ziplock bags then put the plates into the dishwasher. Ethan registers that they have more leftovers than expected, despite both of them probably haven’t eaten anything for a day. This doesn’t come as a surprise: Benji can be such a snob when it comes to Christmas, and Ethan has been the type of person who eats to survive, not to indulge.

Benji leaves the kitchen, carrying a plate of something with him. Ethan stands awkwardly in a kitchen he has made familiar, waiting for the soothing rumble of the dishwasher to stop. There’s now a soft static, then murmurs and faint tunes coming from the living room; he can hear clipped sentences of news, something about a stadium and firework, and then generic cautions about being mindful of the traffic on Christmas day. Benji must have changed stations, for he hears only of statics and buzz until a melody plays, then the voice of Michael Bublé comes through.

He leaves the kitchen and the dishwasher, his tentative steps leading him to the loveseats and he sits an arm away from Benji. There’s a slice of pumpkin pie on his plate, and judging by how he keeps eating it - maybe it’s the only delicacy that saves this entire Christmas Eve meal from ruin.

The room feels colder even with the heating on. Ethan thinks about leaving, keeping distance, watching Benji from afar until he eventually regains his memory - and then he thinks about his house with fading emerald paint, how he turns a house that was once of his and Julia’s into a _stop_ , both a reminder and a taunt to how he cannot indulge, cannot _falter_. 

A clink, then a rustle. He feels a finger tapping on his left arm, then a half-eaten slice of pumpkin pie is extended to him.

“You can use my fork,” Benji says when Ethan attempts to stand up. His voice is strangely subdued, hesitant - “Unless you’re afraid to catch something from me. I don’t think I have any disease... well, unless you count my amnesia as one.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Ethan huffs, but accepts the plate.

“But you are afraid of me.”

His fingers freeze, threaten to tip the slice of pie onto the ground. Benji sets the plate onto Ethan’s lap instead, his body leaning toward him in a way that makes Ethan’s breath stilted, like he’s prepared to get hurt. 

Benji catches that, despite the television churning out its playlist without care.

He shies away, even when Ethan is the person who’s acting out of line. “I’m sorry.” he says, “I’m the one that said not to push, but...”

“It’s not you.” Ethan confesses, when another Christmas-y pop song ends - “And, I do. I’m-- I...”

It feels like he’s teetering to something forbidden in his psyche, something he had shoved into the depth of his mind because it’s easier to continue, to _pretend_ , rather than confronting himself. That _something_ has never come up in their relationship, not even when the fiasco in London was dealt with and Ethan had spent a whole night holding Benji closed, absorbing his tremors as an alternative of dealing with his own quivers. After that, they got closer, tentatively. None of them were surprised when a kiss happened when Benji asked him to visit his apartment for the first time.

The thing is, Ethan knows the depth and span of his emotions. He can be happy, be sad, be angry, worry, doubt, _feel_. He can laugh until his own lungs hiccup, he can cry until his tears run dry and his face goes numb. He knows love, and he isn’t afraid of expressing it.

Yet, maybe it’s the problem; that he _knows_ . What he knows, he will hone and sharpen it, make it into a shield, a weapon, or a trap. Ethan will show everything, _use_ everything, as long as it isn’t something that he _doesn’t know_. 

“You know, all I’ve remembered about you are rumours,” Benji admits, voice going soft - “The best agent of the IMF, the unfazed backbone of the agency. Some people didn’t believe you’re human, and I don’t think I did back then, to be honest. And... I think I remembered you with shorter hair than what you’re having now.”

“... Same with your beard.”

“Same with mine, you get it,” Benji says. He doesn’t comment on Ethan’s shaky voice yet, probably due to sympathy. He continues, “So, these past few days... You’d understand if I’ve found you completely different from what I’ve been made to believe, wouldn’t you?”

Ethan swallows, keeping himself as quiet as he could. Benji heaves a frustrating sound and turns his body to face him.

“You’re not just afraid of me, but of my own amnesia, as well. And I... I can’t try to make it better for you if you won’t tell me.”

“That’s the thing. I was not supposed to tell you.”

“Not telling me _what_ , exactly? I know what kind of agency I’m working for, I know how they work. I know that _our_ job is extremely dangerous, maybe that explains a bit about your tendencies-- yet Ethan, pardon the sudden burst of confidence, but I’m not so obtuse as to _need_ you spelling things out for me! Sometimes the answer is in what you see, and get, from _the pictures_.”

There’s a commercial going, but Ethan cannot make out a single word it says. The same breathless feeling in the clinic returns, growing tenfold under the determined stare of Benji. He startles himself with a realization that this will be who Benji could become - still so naive, yet _so_ trusting and kind, and loyal to what or whomever he _trusts_ \- and the traumas and hurts Benji had forgotten are layers of grime that Ethan helps create. The thought is illogical as it is irrevocable, and whatever expression Ethan makes is enough to make Benji stand up from the loveseat, a hand extends in front of him. 

“Have a dance with me,” he demands.

There’s no clock inside the apartment because Benji was saving money for a grand clock he fancied back in Vienna, but Ethan can glance at the digital rectangle at the bottom right of the television to know that it’s forty-five minutes to midnight. Benji still waits for him, his scrunched eyebrows lax when he takes in the tunes of the new song, then mumbles to himself.

“This is one of my favorites,” he says, then scowls again. “Wait, did I hear it before? Don’t suppose I did...” 

“You did. It’s Coldplay’s.”

Ethan stands up to the first verse of ‘Christmas Lights’, slowly taking in Benji’s hand in his. “How much I have missed, Ethan?” Benji asks him, a trace of regret slowly rising.

He thinks of replying, then doesn’t. _Not too many good things_ , he wants to say. _Too many bad things and half of them are because of me_ , he wants to apologize. 

Maybe sensing what Ethan is trying to say, Benji just pulls him into a slow dance, with the most unlikely song to have a romantic sway to.

They are both tense, with grips too rigid and feet shaking to withhold the weight of their cumbersome feelings toward each other. Then something shifts, then Ethan realizes they had danced together more times than needed - there was a party in the HQ, there was a wedding of one of the senior agents, and there was their first Christmas together. They dance with mismatched pace to the monotonous and gentle lullaby, feeling more joined than ever while listening to the lonely tellings from the singer. 

Ethan is still guarded, with more apprehension and regret than caution, yet Benji only looks like he’s simply waiting.

“I thought all secret agents know how to dance,” Benji breathes, teasing.

“Only when they have a goal in mind,” Ethan remarks.

“Oh, shame.” he clicks his tongue at Ethan, yet the small speckle of sadness in those words burns as bright as candlelight.

“ _Don’t_ , Benji,” Ethan’s voice suddenly turns scratchy - “You... whatever pictures you’ve seen, it’s true. But I don’t want to monopolize you. I’ve promised to wait until your memories come back on their own.”

The song ends, and a ballad continues after that. “You look hurt,” he says, their snail pace of a dance drags on - “And I, I’ve said it before, haven’t I? I only lost memories, not my ability to decide what’s right and not. It’s not like I’ll drink your words like water or soup or... or _something_.”

“But you don’t remember _me_. You don’t remember how we’re at this point.” Ethan’s voice picks up. It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to be upset.

Benji stops, his feet step on Ethan’s. He seems to mull over what he’d said, then lets go of Ethan’s hand to cup his face. The regret rises in his blue eyes, making Ethan’s hands taunt with the need to reciprocate, to _soothe_.

“Make me know of your feelings, Ethan. Make me understand how unfair you’ve felt.”

Just like that, Ethan teeters over the edge and goes back _home_ . He surges forward, his teeth catch the bottom of Benji’s lips, his fingers dig into the lower fabric of Benji’s shirt with such an intensity that his mind screams at him to _let go, he’s still hurt, you’ve promised_. He kisses like he’s in pain and Benji’s mouth is the painkiller he needs to take: shaky and uncoordinated, wary yet vigorous, he relies on Benji to hold his face steady so he can pour himself onto the other man’s lips. 

His mind chastises him still, yet his heart sings with _He kisses back, he kisses me back, you miss this so much, you’ve waited so long for this_.

Ethan’s trembling hands find purchase on the other’s neck, smoothing his palms to rest on Benji’s shoulders. This is an all-out on Ethan’s part, finally allows himself to feel as honest and instinctive as he lets himself to be. Benji gasps into his mouth, the taste of the too-sweet pumpkin pie makes him swallow mid-kiss, feeling marginally better than any meal he has ever tasted. Their tongues slide together in a familiar waltz, and in the heat of the moment, Ethan’s hand lightly squeezes Benji’s left shoulder, an act which was ingrained into his instinct during their growing moments of intimacy.

Benji hisses, not a pleasurable sound. Ethan jerks back, feeling cold and full of dread.

“I’m sorry, I was careless, I’m so sorry--”

“No, Ethan, don’t-- Stop, don’t you dare move from--”

They talk over and hold onto each other, only stopping when the music station stops for a time announcement. Ten more minutes until Christmas. There’s a buzzing roar on the street outside, with families and couples and groups moving to get the best watching spot for the firework show. The festive atmosphere is separate with only a thin layer of glass, and Ethan remembers - they had once watched firework together, here, on the balcony, with Benji trained his eyes on the showy sparks of American firework, and Ethan felt a little bit more in love while watching him.

“It’s important. The memories,” Ethan’s voice is hoarse, ugly-sounding in his ears. It’s one of the reasons why he dislikes talking about his feelings - “It’s a token of how we get to where we are. Sometimes it’s the only thing I have when you’re not...”

“You’re afraid of losing me,” Benji says, with clarity, with consolation. He still holds onto Benji.

“If I can trade anything of mine for yours, I’d wish to trade what you’ve suffered because of me. Maybe I don’t want to tell you things about us not because I was ordered to, but...” Ethan licks his lips, clings to the sweet taste of pumpkin. “You’re better without it. Without me.” 

Benji considers his words, just like how he had promised earlier. “I do admit, maybe it’s some kind of... protection mechanism, I suppose. As nice as that moment was, can’t say that I wasn’t a bit iffy on kissing someone I still don’t know much.” But then Benji looks straight ahead, pinning him with determination in his eyes - “Were you, at any point, coerce me into doing things with you, or for you?”

Ethan’s paused.

“Not of my own choosing, I think. We... You know we’re not having the same occupation, correct?”

“Correct,” Benji nods.

“I’ve heard from my associates that you... trained to be a field agent, after you’ve met me. You passed the field exam.” Ethan says with a hint of wonder in his voice, still a little floored with what Benji had confessed to him before - “I didn’t treat you with enough respect at first, even robbed you into a scheme of mine then tried to push you away without any sensible reasons. But you-- you insisted, and stayed with me. Even till now.” 

“So, if I guess this correctly, then my injuries are related to this... new job, that I’m having.”

“I don’t know if you have regretted it and didn’t confide in me. What you’ve gone through--”

“Stop, _stop_ . You _thought_ that it’s better to stew in your own juice,” Benji cuts in, the phrase makes Ethan’s eyebrows shoot up - “Christ on a crutch, you self-sacrificing idiot.”

“Benji, aren’t you the one--”

“It’s my choice, isn’t it? Clearly, the outcomes weren’t ideal, I do prefer having fewer bruises and injuries, I do know being a field agent is bloody scary.” 

He huffs with a look Ethan is accustomed to late nights in safe houses, with Benji chidings and bandaging his more-than reckless wounds. Yet, what follows will always be the same - with Benji putting his hands on Ethan’s arms, grounding and holding him with such a small, _intimate_ gesture, that it makes Ethan feel hopeful _for himself._

He relents and rests his head on Benji’s chest. A countdown starts on the television, then outside.

“I think I can decide on how I should feel about these choices of mine,” Benji says, on the count of _nine_.

“... And what’s your decision?” Ethan asks, in anticipation, on the count of _four._

Benji lifts his jaw and closes in, _three_.

“If those lead me to you refusing to leave my side for a whole week, in a place I’d freak out for not recognizing...” 

- _two, one, zero, Merry Christmas_ \- 

“Then I’d say it went better than I’ve hoped.”

  
  


___

  
  


Ethan doesn’t admit to sleeping on Benji’s bed for the first time that night, or when the morning comes. He doesn’t stay on the bed for long, he doesn’t let himself indulge in the warmth that asks him to be selfish. When Benji wakes up and finds him in the kitchen, his call of “ _Ethan_ ” still doesn’t sound like what it used to be, still a touch too foreign, still a lingering shyness between them. Benji’s memories are still missing, they are strangers still.

“Tell me how we’ve met, please?” he asks Ethan over their breakfast tea and leftovers from last night, with a smile that makes him feel _at_ _h_ _ome_ , and somehow Benji is still the same man he’s grown to read, to trust, to depend, to worry about. To _love_.

Ethan _indulges_ . And his life with Benji doesn’t stop, but _continues_.

**Author's Note:**

> A present that I've prepared before Christmas yet missed the date due to irl circumstances... then I decided to add more stuff into this. Voilaa! Merry (late) Christmas!
> 
> I'd like to give my thanks to the Benthan Discord for organizing the Benthan SS Exchange, and what a wonderful excuse for me to write about these sappy spies. I'm sorry for the radio silence, but I promise I'll be back! Gotta ready for MI7 next year, right? ;)
> 
> Talk to me about Benthan on Tumblr (grennefoam) if you wanna! Also, read/kudos/comments are super-duper appreciated!!


End file.
